


Alexander

by protectoroffaeries



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:38:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectoroffaeries/pseuds/protectoroffaeries
Summary: "Are you certain that you want to do this, John?""It is not a matter of what I want, Lafayette. It is a matter of what I must do."





	Alexander

**Author's Note:**

> I played with tenses in reference to the recently deceased.

_ “Are you certain that you want to do this, John?” _

Lafayette's words from three days prior rattle about in his head as he wraps his fingers around the brass knocker mounted on the door in front of him. The metal is cold to the touch due to the brisk weather of autumn; the closing of October is in a week's time. By then, John will be another year older. He does not think himself ready for another year, though. He wishes that time would march backwards instead of forwards, and he wonders if that feeling will weigh on him for the rest of his days.

It is likely.

A young woman answers the door a few moments after John's knock.She is unremarkable to him, honestly, with her plain dress and her hair tied in a messy manner. Clearly, she was not expecting to have guests. He thinks she might be a servant until his eyes fall on the swell of her abdomen; she is heavy with child, as Alexander's wife should be.

“Mrs. Hamilton?” John guesses. Had he not more pressing matters at hand, he would suggest she hire someone to get the door for her. Certainly, being a Schuyler by birth, she can afford it. Alexander spoke of her family's wealth many times; John suspects that was part, if not all, of her allure.

“Yes?” prompts the woman, who has now confirmed herself to be Alexander's dear Betsey, though that is not her name, that is an endearment. She goes by Eliza to others not her husband, if he remembers correctly. John cannot say if she is what he expected - did he have expectations for Alexander's wife? Something deep within his chest constricts, but he has business to which he must attend. He can wallow in his misery on his ride back to camp.

“Colonel John Laurens, ma’am,” he says. Not the most formal of introductions, but John does not feel an obligation toward formality with this woman. Not because he does not respect her - she  _ is _ Alexander's wife - but because they are connected in more ways than she can ever know.

Eliza smiles, the poor woman.

“Oh, Colonel Laurens,” she says happily, “Alexander speaks so highly of you. Do come in!” She stands aside, and John steps into her home, out of the chill of the breeze he doesn't notice until it is no longer pressing against his skin. She shuts the door and latches the lock while John waits. He does not remove his coat; he will not be here long.

He makes a point not to examine Alexander's home to closely; He follows Eliza into the sitting room without letting his eyes wander. If he could, John would've told her without setting a foot inside the house. But she could be prone to fainting, and he does not want her to injure herself, or her child, by collapsing on the unforgiving ground.

Eliza sits, and she directs John to do the same. “Oh! Would you like a drink? I imagine your ride made you thirst,” she says, and immediately, she goes to stand again, but her situation makes it difficult, and John is not thirsty anyhow. He shakes his head and asks her to sit. Thankfully, she listens.

There are thousands upon thousands of things that could be going through his mind right now, from his own poor wife and his own poor child, to how this conversation is going to end, and onto Alexander, but John's headspace runs from thought. There is only silence. Numbness. Emptiness. He has known such feelings before, but he underestimated their ability to intensify.

“I did not stop by for my leisure, Mrs. Hamilton,” John says, not rudely, but perhaps roughly.

Eliza's smile drops for the first time since he told her his name.

“Is Alexander hurt?” she asks, but she already knows the answer. It's written across her face. She knows. But John still has to say it, because he knew, too, but it was not real until Lafayette said it, and it will not be real for Eliza until he says it.

“Alexander is dead.”

Eliza, to her credit, does not faint. She does not burst into tears. She does not scream at him in denial. She grows very, very still.

John waits. He hates every moment, but he waits.

“When?” she manages to whisper after minutes or hours or days or years pass.

“The twelfth.” Easy question. He is grateful.

“Was it a great pain?” she asks, like John would know. Like John has died. John has died.

“No, ma’am,” says John, although he is probably lying. Lafayette would not let John see what remains of Alexander, and then General Washington turned it into an order. From the looks on each their faces, John knows that Alexander's end was gruesome.

John thought, for many days, that he could not believe it unless he saw Alexander's corpse with his own eyes, but when he finally voiced this concern, Lafayette said, “If you look upon the body of the man you love in such a horrific state, you will join him before the week ends; of this, I have no doubt. Perhaps you feel that is not a bad outcome, but I assure you that Alexander will not forgive you in the next life if you step from this one too soon.”

John finds it hard to believe that he will see Alexander in the next life. Does the Devil let lovers turn upon the same rack?

“It is a great pain for you,” Eliza observes after he spends an indeterminate amount of time lost in memory. Could he spend the rest of his days in memory, he would die a happy man.

“Pardon?”

“Alexander's death,” she says, and John notices her eyes are wet now. When did she begin to cry?

“I… he was a dear friend.” What a gross understatement. What an insult to their relationship. John gave Alexander his body, and Alexander taught him the elation of sensation. John opened his mind to Alexander, and Alexander countered and expanded his views, altered his truths. John bared his soul to Alexander, handed it over piece by miserable piece, and Alexander soothed it. John let Alexander become a part of him, and Alexander died.

“You are in love with him,” Eliza accuses softly.

John has nothing to say. Her accusation, however true, is the last thing he expected to come from her mouth. They have known each other for mere minutes; are the depths of his desire and shame so obvious? He prays that they are not, though he knows God has long stopped listening.

“It is not obvious,” she says, as if she can hear his thoughts, and he wonders a moment if she is truly omniscient. “I can only see it because I am also in love with him. You are a mirror, John.”

Her words cut him.

“I need to go,” he says suddenly. He stands.

“Please stay,” she begs, and he looks down on her. She and her child, are they Alexander's legacy? Is his death? John knows that he had so much more planned, that he would have built their nation from nothing, that he would have signed his name into history, and that he would have become so legendary that the stars would hide their fires to his wrongs.

“Please,” Eliza says, and she struggles to stand. John helps her; he is not cruel to anyone but himself.

“Mrs. Hamilton, I cannot.”

Eliza wipes her eyes with a small cloth that she pulled from the pocket of her dress. “You love him.”

“What does it matter?” John pleads with her, but he knows what she wants from him now. “He is dead!”

“You gave him everything,” she continues. He wishes he could be angry or appalled at her accusations.

“He is dead.”

“You need him.”

“Mrs. Hamilton-”

“Colonel, please,” Eliza interjects coolly. “Give my husband his peace.”

John falls silent again. There are countless phrases John will never get to whisper to Alexander. Some of them he should've said every time they laid together. But speaking was Alexander's strength, not John's. Surely, Alexander understands.

Eliza waits.

“I love him,” John admits eventually. “I loved him.”

Eliza walks him to the door. She wishes him a good day, as if their entire conversation did not happen. He leaves. Goes back to the war, which they win against all odds. Yorktown, where Alexander lost his life, is the beginning of the end. He never sees Eliza again, although he does one day meet Alexander's son. The boy is just enough like his father that it pains him.

John never loves anyone else the way he loved Alexander. 

_ “It is not a matter of what I want, Lafayette. It is a matter of what I must do.” _


End file.
